Dragon Tales
by IncompleteNarrative
Summary: Voldemort is reborn as the bastard son of Euron Greyjoy who seeks the help of a Faceless Man. Harry is a Faceless Man who doesn't believe his luck when he runs into an old foe turned new friend. There's also a huge dragon.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: what can I say about this story? I want to save a lot of awkward speculation.**

 **Hello, I started this account because I have main account chock full of stories are Incomplete but with somewhat serious plans to complete them. This account isn't like that. It's for stories that I have started and I have no earthly clue what I'm doing with them, but I wanted to share with the world. So, don't come into this story with any serious expectations that this will be finished or updated in a consisted manner.**

 **Two, it is going to be slash. What does that mean? It means the main characters, male characters, will be in a relationship with each other. There will be no pairing up with Dany, Myrcella, Margarey, Sansa, Sand Snakes, or any other female character you have in mind. You can send me one line reviews to tell me to pair Harry and/or Tom up with so and so and I will laugh and thank you kindly for adding to my review count.**

 **Three, this will not be OP!Harry or OP!Tom. What does that mean? That means, Harry will not be born into one of the great houses of Westeros. He will not be Tywin 2.0. He will not be Petyr or Varys 2.0. He will not be Tyrion 2.0 or Jon 2.0 *gasp* He won't even be Voldie 2.0. I know, I know. Boo~. But if you want that story there are loads and loads of them out there I checked. He will also not have an army, a secret spy network, err... super extra powerful magic where he saves everyone, knows everything, and nuts in the hottest girl you're salivating over.**

 **Four, I need a beta. Grammar is bad. Send help.**

* * *

 **Tom**

* * *

Tom tapped the Myrish wizard on the shoulder. He turned around paled with recognition.

Good.

"My father wishes to speak with you."

The Myrish wizard spoke the Common Tongue brokenly, stressing an appointment made. He swore to come to father on the morrow. It was important. He could not miss it. His light brown eyes darted to the side and his blue lips trembled. It began to grate on Tom's nerves.

"Stop talking," Tom commanded in bastard Valyrian. The wizard pressed his lips together, staring at him. "Come with me." Tom threaded through the innkeep to the second floor, check to see if the wizard followed. People listened to Tom when he spoke.

Tom and the wizard entered a long, dark corridor and stopped at the last door on the left.

The Crow's Eye sat near the empty fireplace. They were whores, young twins, Maia and Calipso were tangled together in rumpled sheets. They giggled when they set eyes on Tom. Tom snorted, disgusted. He took his place at the Crow Eye's side. "Good boy. I can count on you." His lone, blue eye like the famed waters around the Sapphire Isle, smiled as it settled on him.

Tom said nothing. He would not rise to the bait. Compliments were not freely given from someone like his father. Euron Greyjoy was mad and clever, it made him dangerous. The Crow's Eye tsked. "Cold. If only you were like your mother. You are hard to love."

Euron faced the Myrish wizard and snapped his fingers. Tom poured the drinks. He had long since grown used to the foul scent of the Shade-of-evening, a pelicular beverage drank by Qarth wizards. Tom stepped back after he dealt out the gold cups.

"Wizard, we leave tomorrow. My mongrels grow anxious without reeving and raping. It has put me in need of cheering up. Do you have what is mine?"

 _No_ , Tom thought. This "wizard" was a charlatan.

"It is a slow process!" the wizard told his father. "I only ask for a little bit more gold and time. See here." His father drained his cup. The Crow's Eye had no temperament for patience and he did not like to be told lies.

The wizard set his cup hard on the table before him. It wobbled and deep blue drops splashed over, staining the wood. He drew a satchel from under his roughspun cloak and pulled out the dragon's egg. It was a deep green flecked with black splotches that looked oiled. To the untrained eye, it looked like a colorful rock or an artisan piece fashioned by glassmakers in Qohor. How the fool had gotten a hold of a genuine dragon's egg, Tom did not know. Dragon's eggs were exceedingly rare, rarer than Valyarian steel, and they were fossilized relics from a time when there had been magic in the world. The wizard spun the egg around and pointed at a hairline crack.

"Progress!" he proclaimed, his sallow skin flushed. "It is on its way to hatching. By the time the year is out, I swear you will have a dragon."

Tom's fists curled. "Tell the truth," he said coldly.

The wizard startled. He blinked at Tom, his nervous eyes darting between him and the Crow's Eye. "You would do well to answer," his father rumbled.

"I - I - I," the wizard stammered, gulping. "I am, milord. I only need a bit more time."

 _Lies, lies, lies, do not lie to me!_ Tom's nails dug into his palm. The wizard's cup trembled, dark rivers ran down the rim.

A sickening squelch turned Tom's attention. The Crow Eye's towered over the wizard, his red and black battle ax wedged deep in the wizard's soft middle. There was a look of surprise on his face before his father wrenched his axe free. His hands were covered in blood as he tried to keep his insides in, "But it has not been a year," he croaked and fell forward.

Maia and Calipso screamed. Tom stared at the dragon's egg.

"Shut them up. We don't want to be rude to the other guests."

Tom drew his dirk from his belt and moved towards the bed. He was one-and-ten and skinny, but he was fast and efficient. They struggled, he knocked them out, Maia first and then, Calipso. His father resettled in his chair, snickering quietly. Soon, the white sheets were flecked with drops of crimson and there two pink tongues on the floor. Tom wiped clean his blade.

Tom drifted toward the dragon's egg. It called to him, whispering to pick it up and hold it close. His pale fingers twitched. He imagined what his father would do with the egg, likely parade it about until he grew bored and threw it away. The Crow's Eye did not care for the value of an item, so much as the joy of taking from others.

Tom gritted his teeth. It would be wasted.

"Father," called Tom, because the Crow's Eye liked the title even if he did not care much for the job. His blue eye pinned on Tom, and he gave him a twisty, fevered smile. The shade-of-evening gave Euron Greyjoy an anxious sort of energy. "Please, Father, could I have what's left of the charlatan's farce." Tom dared to brush fingers against the egg's warm surface.

"Why?"

"It is beautiful," Tom said. That was true.

Crow Eye's nodded slowly. He pulled the full cup toward him, he shrugged. "It is yours, bastard."

Tom snatched the dragon's egg and cradled it to his chest. Tom was not much for bowing, bastard or not, but he gave the Crow's Eye a stiff bow and a bland sentence of gratitude. His father's eye smiled up at Tom.

Maia and Calipso were still on the bed, unconscious. Their smallclothes and dusky skin stained by their drying blood. They had shut up. Tom was unsure how much longer they would last. His father's treatment of women was consistent with his treatment of plunder and trinkets. When he grew bored and they would have to be thrown away. Tom hoped Craghorn would be responsible for them this time. He frowned and held the egg tighter; heavy as it was, Tom never wanted to let it go. Shifting on his feet, Tom nevertheless resolved to remain quiet until he was given leave to go.

The Storm God howled his rage tonight. The inn rattled and groaned, and rainwater found space between the wood. Tom knew tomorrow the floor would be covered with water. His ears pricked with the boom of thunder, and his body froze up with each crash of lightning. He almost missed being on father's galley, _Silence_. Silence promised a dry bed. His father boasted Silence as being the only ship on the fourteen seas able to handle the Storm God's cock and load.

Candles breathed in the background casting shadows on the walls of the small room.

Tom's dragon egg's sat on his stomach. It weighed like a great stone. He turned it over many times until he felt sure its intricate design was burned in his memory. What would he do with his dragon's egg? He could sell it for a great fortune and live as a small lord.

Perhaps, he could find another wizard from the House of the Undying or Asshai to try and make his egg hatch. Maybe, go to the House of Black and White and trade the egg for a boon. Tom did not want to be part of Silence forever.

Tom shifted on his side, and his egg rolled down. He drew it close to his chest as he curled around it. His egg was warm. All these ideas and possibilities and not one sounded appealing. _"I will keep you,"_ he said, slipping into his strange tongue. Tom never met anyone that spoke the language aside from various snakes he had encountered since birth. " _And, you will be my friend_."

In the morning, Tom awoke to insistent hisses. _Hungry hungry_. Tom rolled over burying his face into the thin pillow. It was too early he knew because he heard nothing, nothing aside from hungry hungry. _Feed me._

"Piss off!" Tom shot from the bed, he opened his eyes to the source of noise. It did not take him long to see: a dragon.

There was a dragon on his bed. She was small, about the size of Tom's palm. She was green as olives, speckled in black. It was rather obvious to him she was a girl, though if anyone asked he would not be able to give them a reason. She blew ashy rings of smoke at him. Her claws tore the fabric of his sheets as she scuttled closer, blowing angrily and glaring fiercely, demanding food.

He glanced to his left. There were pieces of his dragon's egg. Sharp, jagged shards glittered like precious stones in the dim light. 

Tom stood up, and she climbed on him in protest. Her claws pinched deep. She kept climbing. Her smooth tail wrapped around his neck, his pulse jumping under her claw. Tom smiled.

"Hungry, I heard," Tom said. "What do you eat?" he stroked her, marveling at the raised spikes on her back. She was terrifically warm. Tom paced about the length of the room.

"You're out of luck if you want is milk, I have no tits." Tom reached to cup his flat chest to make sure he hadn't gained the ability to lactate in the night. "I'm sure any wet nurse would scare with your teeth. Perfect for tearing into your enemy, my dear." _Hungry, hungry._

Tom nodded. He stepped outside his room then abruptly went back inside. He had nearly done something stupid. He hurried around his room, checking under his bed, seeing only dust mites. It was impossible for someone to hide in the fireplace, but he checked, seeing only ash. He moved far from the window.

Tom tilted his head to the left to look into her eyes.

"There has not been a dragon seen in Westeros or Essos in centuries. You're supposed to be extinct."

She snapped her teeth at him.

"I'm pleased for the contrary. But, what would they say if they saw you? You are tiny and I am not a man grown. They would take you."

More smoke billowed in his face. Tom coughed. He agreed. "They cannot take you from me. You are my friend." Mine. He was not going to lose his dragon. The decision in mind, he coaxed her from his shoulder and settled her on his bed.

Tom crouched down to eye level. She crouched in turn, eyeing him with bright intelligence. "Stay," Tom said, standing. "I will be back."

She growled at him. He raised a quelling eyebrow. This would not do. He had to be firm even if they were to be friends. He was older after all and she was not even a few hours. He knew of the dangers in the world, and he was going to keep her safe until she grew big enough to protect herself.

"Stay," Tom stressed as he had done with the Myrish wizard. "You want food. I will bring you food, yes."  
 _Hungry, Hungry. Food_.

Tom nodded. He backed away. She made to follow. "Stay!" She froze. Tom made to move again and he was relieved she did not move, only she continued to glare at him, beginning to growl.

That was all right. She was entitled to her anger.

A last quelling glance at her and Tom hurried to the kitchens. He was not surprised to see the wenches and cooks already up. Cooking was a never-ending task. "The Crow Eye's wishes to break his fast."

A short, gnarled old man covered in wiry black hair glared at him with ruddy brown eyes. "Does he now? He will have to wait like everyone else." This man was stupid or in a hurry to meet the Drowned God. Tom did not care either way.

"He does," Tom stated simply. "I ask again. The Crow's Eye wishes to break his fast. Tell him differently if you wish. I warn you, the last person to deny him was spitted and roasted like a pig to soothe his hunger."

The man blanched. Tom's lips curved up into a small, cruel smile. The gnarled man demanded food, then called for fat meat pieces, warm bread, hot cereal and salted fish, eel, and duck. He offered for a wench to bring it up.

"He prefers it from me," said Tom, reaching for the platter.

"Do not hesitate to ask if milord would like something more," the gnarled man said. Tom nodded. He hurried to his room, relieved to see his dragon still on the bed. He was not part of someone waking dream. She sang her greeting.

"I have brought food." Tom put the plate on the bed. He made a noise at the mess on his sheets and the greater mess that would follow after. Still, she was more important than his irritation.

Tom went for the hot cereal and bread. She sniffed around the plates, hissing at the soft pieces like fruits and cereal. She considered the pheasant, the salted fish, and meats. She attacked the parts nearly blackened, but she did not eat very much.

When she had her fill, she climbed Tom once more and laid on his shoulders. Tom scratched her scales. It felt as if he had known her a long time.

"You need a name. Shall I name you after the great she-dragons? How about Vhagar, her breath was said to be the hottest of the dragons. Do you want to be a queen like legendary Red Queen, Meleys? Mayhaps, Tessarion, Syrax, or Meraxes?"

She flicked her tail waspishly. Tom may have read into it, but he moved on all the same.

"There was another dragon only the iron people of Pyke sing tales about Nagga the Sea Dragon. Nagga drowned islands when she was angry and she ate leviathans and krakens. It took man and God to kill her." He looked at her, he imagined her big and larger than Balerion, able to kill krakens and the other great monsters.

"Your name will be Nagini, after her," he said.

Nagini belched black. Tom took it for approval.

* * *

Tom felt frightened. A great fire had eaten the foreboding black sail and was now gobbling the wood on the mast. There were the ringing shrills of the bells and suddenly the deck crowded with bodies as they hurried to save supplies and thwart the fire. Tom knew it would not be stopped as easily as normal fire, because it was dragon's fire. Nagini's fire.

There was no time to hide below the deck with her. His silver tongue failed Tom, and he could not think of an acceptable lie in this situation to explain away the fire and the dragon. There was no place to run while the ship swayed on the frigid sea. Tom stood there, cold sweat clung to him despite the fierce fan of the flames.

No one yet seemed to notice Nagini at Tom's feet like a loyal lapdog. He reached down to reach pet her, wishing she were big enough to mount so they could fly far, far away. Their galley rocked violently with the ram of the _Silence_.

All at once, Tom felt the foreboding of those they terrorized when he saw the fearsome visage of the Crow's Eye's red hull and the strangling arms of his golden kraken adorned sail peeking through the low clouds. A thick plank smacked the lip of Tom's galley, connecting hull to hull. Tom's gaze followed his father as he walked calmly over, the very image of the gods of old, a creature of seafoam and rage and splendor. Certainly, Euron Greyjoy was the Drowned God come again. He was more comely than any of the Ironborn.

Towering over his people, he was lithe, without whiskers like a youth, possessing long, clean ink black hair with good teeth.

His father's footsteps matched that of Tom's own pulse. Tom found he stood straight and stared dead ahead at his father. There was little use in cowering. Tom did not have to wait long until his father was before him, blue met blue.

"My ship is on fire."

"It is."

"Your egg has hatched."

"Yes."

"When?"

"The night of the Myr wizard's death."

"That long? What happened tonight?"

"An accident. Nagini is learning how to control her fire."

"Nagini." The Crow's Eye looked at her. Tom had not stepped stroking her throughout the conversation. Nagini stayed quiet. For the past few weeks ,she made of habit of roaring or her version of roaring at the rats and small cats she found prowling around the dark corners of the ship.

"Join me." It was not a request.

Tom followed. He fell into step with his father. He would not suffer to walk behind him. "Kill them," the Crow Eye's said airly to the crew on his Silence. He had no use for a destroyed ship and crew to go with it. Screams filled the air. The stars twinkled above them. Then, there was silence.

The Crow Eye's led him and Nagini to his cabin. It always surprised Tom how bare the room felt. It was tidy, well-ordered and well-worn. There weren't many trinkets and items adorning the walls or shelves. Euron paid with the Iron Price for what he had, and Tom guessed the cabin would be much too small if the Crow's Eye were to store all of his treasures here.

The Crow's Eye sat in a chair. Tom didn't presume such luxuries. He stayed where he was near the door, watching his father warily. What would he do? Cut out his tongue or maybe tie him to the front of his ship as his new lady. Tom was replaceable as a bastard, a half a moon ago he attended the birth of his father's latest bastard by a favored wooly-haired woman of Summer Islander. Though the worst punishment Tom thought was him taking Nagini.

Tom barely moved out of the way when the an ugly dwarf, Trick, waddled into the room. In his hand was a horn, polished to shine and black as the midnight sea. It was covered in golden Valyrian sigils.

"Blow," commanded the Crow's Eye.

The dwarf blew. His face red.

An awful, screeching sound like a thousand cries and horrors mixed shook the room, Tom and Nagini screamed as one. Tom fell to his knees futilely trying to cover his ears. Nagini turned toward the sound and she gave her own belting cry. _Pain_.

It went on for an eternity. When it was done the dwarf fell to the wayside. His lips steamed. Tom was on the floor, breathing hard hot tears streamed down his face. The ringing of the terrible horn in his ears.

 _I will kill you for that.  
_

There was no grand claim. No rush to strangle the Crow's Eye on his throne-like chair, staring at him with his smiling blue eye.

Tom said nothing. He got up on shaky legs, wiping his face, and tried to stand straight as he could. Nagini whimpered next to him. He hated her for that. "Quiet," he hissed. She would have to learn to weather pain. He reached down and stroked her spiny horns.

"Sit with me, bastard."

Tom sat obediently.

"Have I told you about your mother?"

He knew he had not. "No."

"She was a whore in Braavos. She was no beauty, but when she saw my black sail and golden kraken in port, she told me she smiled."

 _She was a fool.  
_

"The woman came to me wet and willing and begging. She had a great ass and her teats were not half bad. She spoke to me."

"About?" Tom ventured, hoping it was not more talk about fuckery.

"Prophetic dreams. Nonsense, but she was noisy about krakens and wolf cubs and death."

Tom did not put much into prophecies, they were like the stories wyverns, basilisks, giant apes, vampire bats, and dragons. Tom glanced at Nagini. His own dragon.

"My mother was a Targaryen?"

"She did not have purple eyes or white hair."

Tom nodded.

"It matters not, whatever your mother has you have it. I have it."

"Yes." Tom understood immediately.

"Go."

Tom went. Nagini made to follow, but the Crow's Eye halting voice commanded him to make her stay.

Tom's eyes widened. No, rose in his throat, he caught it just in time. He considered what would happen if he did not listen. Incendio, a little flame was enough to engulf a sail. Surely, Nagini could do it again.

The Crow's Eye reached for the horn. All Tom thought was of Nagini's wail of pain. His pain.

"Nagini, stay."

He walked back slow, his eyes on. Nagini stayed.

He laid in the swinging beds that night and thought of nothing else but Euron Greyjoy's death.

Often, it was said the Ironborn only knew how to reave and rape. There was a small kernel of truth in the old saying, as it was true that the Starks were borne of wolves, Tyrells wrapped in thorns, and Lannisters shit gold. Tom found the Ironborn were masters in raiding, yes, but they were not a stupid people. Tom hated his father and thought he was insane, but he was not a fool.

The Crow's Eye said he was as learned as any lordling on the mainland. Tom did not want for his education, the Crow Eye's made sure he knew his sums and his basic letters enough to know and write his name, Tomlon.

A basic principle of the Ironborn was taking what they wanted and needed. Tom took books and teachers as his own. The few crew members of Silence with their tongues intact joked about those being Tom's salt wives. Tom treated what was his with great care as he outgrew infancy into manhood, he made doubly to sure to remind the _Silence_ men to keep away from his things lest they risked a slow death. Tom also learned of Westeros and could name all the houses, sigils and their silly words. He knew an assortment of tongues well enough so he accompany his father wherever he went by the time he was three-and-ten. Magic too.

Tom kept his magic from his father. The Crow's Eye was hungry for warlocks and trades of old. In his crew, he kept a few claimed greenseers, skinwalkers and wizards from the Free Cities. Tom did not need his own innate magic to know those in his father's crew were little more than mummers. Tom knew real magic. Magic vastly more powerful than that of this world. Magic, he learned from his dreams, in a great stone castle and on many travels. Magic flowed within Tom. His knowledge came in piecemeal, bit by bit, year after year, memory after memory. If Tom knew he was so powerful, what stopped Tom from killing Euron Greyjoy and being done with it?

The horn.

Euron instilled fear inside Tom. It was the horn that prevented Tom from striking back. Euron allowed disposable, often new, members of his crew to blew the horn at his whim and as soon as Nagini had grown big enough to ride, Euron hadn't hesitated to send them into battle. Tom often woke in cold sweat when he remembered his first battle with Nagini.

Tom had ridden on her scaly back, clinging to one of her pale ridges, thighs pressed around her, and staring ahead of him instead of down. There were the enemy pirate ships below, their jolly rogers more like badly patched curtains. With the wail of the great horn and undoubtedly the shout of Euron, it was time for him and Nagini.

Incendio, Tom had screamed and Nagini reared her head back as she opened her mouth to blow, great streams of dragonfire coming from her. Three of the ships cracked apart. Another exploded. Tom had felt a heady rush of victory as he looked at the small men. The remaining ships fought back. Heavy balls of lead volleyed through the air. Tom was jerked with Nagini as they dodged this way and that until Nagini was hit.

Tom remembered spiralling and the jarring slap as he and Nagini crashed into the water. He was sure he blacked until he abruptly regained consciousness, fighting like Nagini until they slipped onto the surface, half floating and drowning until Euron pulled him aboard. Tom laid there like a landed fish in his seawater vomit. Nagini was aboard another ship, she sang softly to him, her vibrant green wings shined under the harsh light. The Crow's Eye had said nothing when he saw him, his eye hinting at curiosity.

Euron Greyjoy had many of his crew members blow from his horn that day. If Tom blacked out, Euron awakened him and waited until he was cognizant to begin anew. Tom never forgot the lesson, so he sought another facet to his education. Battle tactics.

Tom was aware of his weaknesses. He failed to inherit the taciturn nature of the Crow's Eye. He had no mind for battles and how they were won. Tom simply knew he had a dragon and others did not and not much had changed from the time Aegon and his sister wives conquered Westeros on their dragons.

It required a bit of imagination and extrapolation from vague sentences on dragonlords on ancient tomes. There were no more dragonlords, of course. There techniques lost with the Doom of Valyria and bastardized by the Targaryens. Tom borrowed from the Dothraki who mastered their horses to ride into battle. A dragon was like a bigger, more awesome horse. Tom realized he was behind the average Dothraki in development. They started to ride horses when they were just three, but there was little to do on the fourteen seas aside from practice.

Tom was given free reign to ride Nagini within sight of the ominous Silence. He practiced with Nagini day after day. When he could ride her without thought, he moved onto tricks and displays of magic. Tom swore to his girl they would achieve freedom.

Between practices, there were battles and battle experience. Victories kept them away from Euron Greyjoy's battlehorn. Tom resolved to win more.

* * *

Tom had seen twenty now, Nagini only nine and she was large. Tom felt she could swallow two aurochs whole. She was lean and nimble, fast. Her wings blocked out the sun when she took flight. It made Tom wonder just how the last of the Targaryen dragons were only the size of pups at their demise.

 _Silence_ docked in Braavos. Tom had the rare moment away from the Crow's Eye. He found his way to the House of Black and White.

There were a scattered few inside, spread between colorless pools and gods with many tributary candles. Women preferred the Weeping Woman. Lords preferred the Lion of the Night. Sailors liked the Moon-Pale Goddess and Merling King, but no one preferred the Stranger. No one except Tom.

Tom did not lower to his knees nor did he light a candle. Tom preferred to stand. He faced the Stranger as he would any man. The stone veil covered the Stranger's face. The Stranger could be any one of the gods or none at all. The Stranger was covered from all. Perhaps, it represented the mystery of Death. That was a force Tom believed in. Death was very real.

Light sprang on the Stranger. Tom blinked. He looked to the left to see a boy. He was a boy on the cusp of adulthood, though he held none of the awkwardness. His skin was tan like a nut and his black hair favored a crow's nest. Tom frowned at the boy's forehead free of blemish or scar, but it was the boy's eyes that caught Tom's attention. They were a violent, flashing green shade Tom only saw in his dreams accompanied by the death wail of a woman. The boy wore clothes of black and white. An acolyte.

Tom's eyebrows raised. The boy smiled, "Come along."


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello! As of now, I see this story has 43 favoriters** **and 48 followers. I can tell we're all going to get very close! Thank you to each brave soul that decided to take a chance on the shitty summary and has made it to chapter 2. I have not written chapter three, and I'm in university, so there is the warning.**

 **I got a beta for chapters 1 and 2,** _ **Fundamental Blue.** BIG SHOUT OUT and THANK YOU TO HER_. **and I should be making minor changes to Chapter 1 sometime today or this weekend.**

* * *

 **Acolyte**

* * *

Do not pity the dead, Harry. Pity the living, and above all, those who live without love.

Silence.

Harry and Dumbledore sat down and stared at each other for quite some time, the white of the empty train station stretched out into the distance. The truth of the conversation weighed on Harry's shoulders. A part of him did want to go back. He wanted the serene calmness and light Dumbledore possessed. He knew he had to. He had to prevent families from torn apart and maimed, people broken, and another mother having to make the same sacrifice as his own.

In the yawning silence, Harry could not ignore the pitiful repulsive thing whimpering under the shadow of a chair, laying not so far away from Dumbledore and him. He stood up from his chair and approached it fully despite Dumbledore's warning.

Pity those without love. Harry pitied Voldemort, Tom Riddle Junior, a boy who from the very beginning never knew love. He was worthy of pity, worthy of help.

There was the great whistle of a train and the screeching of wheels. As Harry pushed down the instinct to cower and reel back, a blanket came into existence. White, warm, and made out of soft the blanket fabric fell into his lap. The chair disappeared, and the strange pitiful thing exposed to the sunlight above. It cowered as best it could, keening more terribly.

"It's going to be alright," Harry said awkwardly. He scooped it up into his arms, awkwardly cradling it. He tried to hide his disgust as best he could.

It seemed to like Harry's warmth because it shut up and leaned toward him. Harry went back to Dumbledore who stared at him with wet eyes.

"My boy, you continue to amaze me," Dumbledore said. He eyed it in Harry's arms cautiously, curiously. The look reminded of Hermione. "But, I venture once more, nothing can help it."

"Is that a guess, sir or do you know?"

Dumbledore blinked at him, he fiddled his thumbs. "A guess."

Dumbledore's guesses were usually good. Harry did not presume he knew more than Dumbledore, but he did not assume this great man was infallible. He knew, perhaps more than anyone living, Dumbledore was a man. He made mistakes and was blinded by his confidence.

Harry nodded curtly. He went around Dumbledore to the train that had come into existence on the tracks. The windows were clear, and the doors were open. It was black and looked odd without the Hogwarts motifs, haunting without the rowdy conversations of an upcoming year at Hogwarts. Harry glanced down at the thing in his arms, asleep. Harry started to rock it, swaddling it tighter in white.

Death was an awfully big adventure, Luna Lovegood once told him dreamily after she read a Muggle book. Perhaps, Voldemort would find his great adventure in the next life, and love as well.

"Erm, live a life that involves less killing and being mad, yea?" said Harry to it. "I think you'll be happier."

Harry startled when They appeared on the steps of the train. They were a collection of peoples and faces in one. It was rather hard to pin Them down when each time he blinked They changed completely. They held out their arms and Harry passed along the bundle wordlessly, stepping back.

"Take good care."

They collectively nodded. Harry waited until the train left, the lingering whistle rang in his ears, the phantom weight of what had been left of Voldemort in his arms. He turned back to Dumbledore, looking at him expectedly. It was a rare moment, Harry could read his face. It was open, confused, in awe.

"Tell me one last thing," Harry said when he was closer. He was ready to go back. "Is this real? Or has this been happening in my head?"

Dumbledore beamed.

He woke after the sun went down, in the big room above _Red Egg_ he shared with the rogers, the male whores.

Marion woke last. It was cold and drafty. He likely kicked off the blankets sometime in the night. He swung to sit upright, running a hand through his messy auburn hair. When he found his eyeglasses, he dressed for the day and slipped on his slippers. He looked around, the room was predictably empty.

Marion hurried to the kitchens. He walked past the sticks of pale beeswax, and as he passed, they flickered to life. There was no clatter of pots and pans or the busy chatter of cooks and wenches.

He slid into the kitchen, which was quiet as he liked. There was Julie, round and fleshy. A hard smile and kind brown eyes. She wielded wooden spoon as a knight did a longsword. Marion reached for a flaky biscuit, she slapped his hand. "You are late! No food for naughty boys!" She made to slap him again. He darted out of her reach, he stuffed the biscuit in his mouth and grabbed the single bowl of hot cereal on the table.

Marion gave her a smattering kiss on her rouge cheek. "Thank you, Mum!"

He slurped down his cereal, wincing at the heat and delighted in the biscuit. He wished for strawberry jam. The bowl was left under the lamplight. It was a few minutes more, he entered the main floor of _Red Egg_. There were long hallways of red and doors of gold. Marion went around to each room. He changed the linens, lit candles of jasmine and lavender, and frowned when he picked at used sheepskin. There were cans close to the bed, still their customers missed.

When he was done, he flowed into the common room. He went first to the two little windows. The moon was full tonight, he would leave for home when the moon was dark. Snow glittered on the ground. It was clear, which meant they would see a few patrons. He wondered how long it would remain clear, the old folk said the summer was close to its end. Winter was coming.

"What has caught your eye, little lordling."

Marion turned to Ros, the beauty of their _Red Egg_ , her red curls cradled her moon face and her bow lips curled into a smirk. He could see why she was the most sought after.

"Nothing," he said. Ros handed him an iron goblet full of dark red dornish wine. He took a long drink as all whores did before their lanterns lit up the black night and welcomed their travelers.

Rodrik and Erik, brothers, talked quietly amongst themselves. Marion knew they were talking about Elayne, the tanner's newly flowered daughter down the road. Mady sang about the dragon prince and his lost princess while she braided her light hair. She was so young, two-and-ten and on the eve of her first moon blood the Madame would put her up for sell. Wynter and Snow giggled in the corner. Dacey looked uncomfortable there, her hand placed on her stomach. When would Daemon, the wandering Black Brother, come back?

Marion crowded close to Ros, she allowed him to lay his head on her chest. He was a lucky man not to be swindled out of his silvers and coppers. Her great teats were the best pillow. She combed through his tangles. He listened to Mady's song, "Tell me another one of your dreams," Ros said.

"You've heard them all."

"Have I? Start at the beginning, then. Go on!"

He looked at her, then away. "I was Boy. I lived in a painfully ordinary house with a whale, a horse, and a piggy. My room was under the staircase. My companions were spiders and shadows and toy soldiers."

"That's so sad. I could cry."

"It wasn't bad. The whale and the horse left me alone for the most part. And it was fun and terrifying all at once when the whale would turn red, and bellow, _Boy_!" Marion imitated. so loud he caught everyone's attention, wide-eyed. He laughed as did Ros. "The whale would try to lash me with his leather belt, but I was fast."

"Cheeky."

"A little."

"Go on, cheeky boy."

"When I was one-and-ten, I stopped being Boy who lived under the stairs and I was Someone."

"Did you now, who?"

Mady's song ended. The Madame flowed into the room, she snapped her fingers at everyone. It was time to finally begin the day. Marion drew from Ros with a promise to finish the story. The doors opened and there were a few eager men with fat purses ready to start the night. The wenches came from the shadows to serve ale and hard bread and hearty soup. A singer had taken to filling the room with the Battle of Ashford.

The whores danced and waited.

It took until the candles were half melted and the men red and trembling full of ale to approach Erik. When they ascended upstairs so went Rodrik and a man with white whiskers. Then, he was approached last.

Marion was the Little Lordling. He was said to be the most elusive of the male whores in the North and South. He was tall, pale as milk, and with a face as comely as any beauty. When he spoke, sailors swore he was a land mermaid, others claimed it as a mummers trick because it had the power to turn all heads. He rejected away lord and smallfolk alike if his price was not paid. The first stipulation of money was enough to initiate a meeting, but only a meeting, to spend an hour with him he needed to be impressed. "A kraken hatchling, two wolf pups, and a 'Mother May I' show up at my door," Marion said shortly as though he had expected the visit. "A surprise."

Theon Greyjoy, Robb Stark, Jon Snow, and Jory Cassel stood before him. Robert Stark elbowed Jon Snow, a boy that could not be older than four-and-ten on a good day, forward. He had a dour face and a familiar nest of wild oil-black curls. "It's his naming day, we thought we should introduce him to the pleasures of manhood," said Theon Greyjoy, a youth with wisps of whiskers on his upper lip.

"Men, are we? I'm afraid I couldn't serve as your guide. Ros, I think, would treat him just right." As Marion said her name, she seemed to appear out of thin air and threaded her thin arm through Jon's leading him away. Her smirk whittled to an enticing, open smile.

Theon's face pinched. "For your heart troubles, I suggest Wynter," Marion told the young kraken. Jory wandered over to speak with the Madame. It left the heir of Winterfell, alone. He looked so young. Marion remembered when he was born. The bells rang and the wine flowed for weeks on end. Yes, Marion was Northern as Robb Stark. But Robb and Marion had the Southern likeness about them, Tully hair and eyes. _No. That was Robb. Marion was a Northern whore, his parents were northern wheat farmers and their parents before them._

Robb offered a gold dragon and twenty silver stags, Marion half wondered if this was his pocket money for the year, the Starks were famously grudging with their money. Marion bit the dragons. His teeth ached. He put them in his pocket and stared at Robb, waiting for the next part of his fee. Robb cleared his throat. He stood taller, shoulders straight and chest puffed like a man proper.

"You got one chance," Marion said.

It did not deter Robb. From his waist, he drew a small iron dagger and sheath. It was weathered with knicks and scoffs. "My father gave it to me. My first dagger." His Adam's apple bobbed.

Marion did not hesitate. It was a dagger with a tale. It was something learned. Marion stole it with quick fingers. He laced his fingers with Robb's and led him upstairs.

After, Marion stood above Robb. He bent to the mirror and cleaned his mouth with a handkerchief. He faced Robb, a man's calm around him as he laid on the pillows. He caught his breath, his fingers ran through his tousled red-brown hair. He seemed at loss as if he had forgotten his words. Marion guessed this was the first time someone had played with his bollocks and hole while swallowing his sword. It was a good introduction to the night. Marion stalked toward Robb, he intended to teach Robb more about the pleasures his body could produce, and make the young wolf howl. Marion found his throne atop Robb. His door pushed open with the other wolf pup scampering in.

"Robb!" Jon was red-faced. his tunic on the wayside. Robb raised immediately and faced his brother.

"What is it?"

"I want to leave."

Robb looked between him and Jon. Clear frustration read in his eyes, but family came before duty. He nodded shortly. Jon left to stand, likely outside the door. Marion abdicated his throne.

"I'm sorry."

"There's nothing to be sorry for."

"I would like to continue, but I have to go."

"Okay."

"May I see you again?"

Sometimes the Little Lordling refused to meet the same patron twice. He smiled, he cradled Robb Stark's face. He would make a fine Lord, true and honorable and fierce as the direwolf the Starks wore as a sigil. "Perhaps, milord."  
Robb smiled boyishly, bright and trusting. Too trusting. He left Marion.

Marion found Ros when the crowd ebbed. "What happened?" he asked. "A no-shower?"

She shook her head, sighing. "It took some prodding, but he was eager and sweet. The first time they're always so sweet. When it came down to it ... he went back into his shell. He asked about moon tea and what happened when we fell pregnant, poor dear."

Marion hummed. He understood, Jon Snow was bastard, and all the children he has would be bastards like he was. Unless, he was legitimized and as honorable as Eddard Stark was, he was sure he would not legitimize Jon Snow. Not while his wife, Catelyn of Tully drew breath. His thumbs drummed on the table.

He met eyes with another. A Bolton. He waited and went to join him. He carried with him a pitcher of sweet honeyed wine.

* * *

 _Oscar's Trash_ neared the Titan, the door to Braavos. Marion never lost the feeling of awe when he looked upon the bronze Titan. He was larger than building and mountain together, fearsome to behold. When their galley, _Oscar's Trash_ , sailed under him, Marion prepared himself.

The Titan roared, terrifying and awesome. His broken sword raised like he would fight all foes to protect his citizens until he could no longer do so. With the Titan's roar, he welcomed old and new, the Titan wanted them all - the tired, the poor, the wretched huddled mass no one wanted. Beyond the Titan laid Braavos, it was a bastard child to the Nine Cities and offered refuge to all ill-born of the world.

 _Oscar's Trash_ docked in Ragman's Harbor. It was dirtier and noisier than the Purple Harbor. Purple Harbor was only open to Braavosi. Marion preferred Ragman's Harbor, it reminded him of another life where he was Someone. A faraway place called London. He smiled at the sailors and their innovative use of language and followed the people found in the Harbor. He stopped Brusco's eldest for his hoard of mussels, cockles, and clams.

He didn't much care for seafood, though Marion did. Seafood was an aphrodisiac. He took some and inquired after Talea and Brea. He remembered when they were born. Brea was starting to talk about the little crushes she had, like on Tyr, a Summer Islander lad who liked to sing pretty songs. Marion laughed.

Marion danced around freshly docked lusty sailors and traded barbs with the dockside whores. He felt little sympathy for the rowdy Westeroi who were the only ones brave and stupid enough to fall for their sweet words. Canker Jeyne was his favorite; she was indeed the sweetest of the dockside whores. He caught the Veiled Lady before she sat on her barge. She was protected from the light drizzle under her parasol. He appeared before her suddenly and kissed her sweetly on her painted cheek because it was she who he served under when he was just a boy.

Braavos was a series of small islands linked by wobbly wooden benches and harder stone. Buildings were short, stout. They leaned and built upon another. It was flat grey land and boasted no trees. Marion went, exploring. He picked up all sorts of secrets until he stood before large doors, black and white.

Down, Marion headed, to the vaults below the Temple of the Gods. A steaming bath awaited him. He slipped off Marion's silk slippers and colorful pants and shirt and smallclothes. Marion stepped into the waters, submerging himself. He pushed back up a moment later, the last vestiges of Marion gone. He did not come from his bath until he was newly pink. The water dirty.

He found robes of black and white where Marion's clothes were. He decided to leave his cowl down. He went to the kitchens where She was. Small blonde sunken cheeks with a face that reminded of him of a weasel. She brought him a plate of freshly made sweetmeats, Umma the Cook's creation, and a flagon of beer. She waited until He was done with his food. When he was fed, She sat near him. A small smile on her face. He placed his hand on hers.

He was too big now to sit on her lap as he did when he was young. It was enough to be close to her. She was the only mother he had ever known though he was not borne of her. No, he was a trade for the gift of the Many-Faced God. He was borne of a vengeful mother and a golden-hearted idiot Southern Lord in Westeros. She taught him everything he knew, and it was She who introduced him to Grandfather.

Grandfather, he whispered in his bony ear of his other life when he was five while he held Grandfather's yellow worm betwixt his fingers. He kissed Grandfather when he was seven. He declared himself as no one, an acolyte of the Many-Faced God. The House of Black and White was no place for orphans, all had to serve or leave.

She held his face and whispered Braavosi greetings. They traded soft words until it was time for his duty. He went to the Temple. He checked the stone beds for the sleeping and put them in their places. He lit the candles where they stood under the gods of the realms, and they winked like stars in the night. Settling near a pool free of onlookers, his fingers swirled in the cool scarlet pool. There was no scent to these waters, Tears of Lys. A half-finished Draught of Living Death. Lulled into the calm around him, fervent whispers and the smell of treacle tart, the polish of his broom, and something fragrant like flowers.

He rubbed his forehead. A ghost of pain he had not felt in this lifetime. A frown wormed on his face. He looked over his shoulders into the darkness, searching for a presence he was sure he would not find. It was Grandfather that came forward. His dark cowl over his head, foreboding in his robe of black and white, though underneath he had the kindest gentlest face one could find all the lands. Grandfather seemed to be annoyingly omniscient when it concerned Him. He waited for Grandfather to ask him who he was today, if he were loyal, or try to sway him with half a dozen promises of better life. Instead, he pointed to the Stranger.

"He does not belong here."

He peered at the young man standing before the Stranger. His forehead hurt. He pushed his dark brows together.

"Does he seek a gift from the Many-Faced God?"

The gift of death was a blessing. They were agents of the Many-Faced God's will if the price could be paid.

"No."

He swiveled to Grandfather. If not for a Gift and not to drink from the pools, or pray - he swore by the old gods and new gods that one would not bow, he was not made too.

"Then, what?"

"It is time you left us for awhile," Grandfather said. He was surprised. This was the second time he had asked him to leave. The first he had been seven and was named Sirius to work under The Veiled Lady.

"Why?" he asked.

Grandfather smiled at him. "It is time for you to become someone. You have traveled Planteos and you have taken a thousand different names, but you have remained no one. Be someone. Understand?"

"No."

Grandfather pointed the man. He scowled. Grandfather laughed.

He hesitated. "Will you force me out?"

"No, but it will be good. The Many-Faced God approves."

"Does he?"

"You will find your adventure with him."

"I don't like him," he said.

"Hmm. I find that the greatest adventures start with adversaries."

"You're unnecessarily cryptic, _worse_ you are a poor cryptic."

Grandfather laughed. He wiped his red fingers stained with Lys' tears on the white side of his robe. He walked toward the man standing before the Stranger despite a growing headache and a burgeoning quiver inside him. His steps were unheard on the uneven grey ground. He bent low and whispered to the red candle. It lit.

The man startled. He cursed low when he saw the man's, a tall, comely pale youth fresh-faced and black of hair. His eyes were dark blue,though he somehow knew them to be a livid red. The man's eyebrows raised, naked curiosity in his face. No wrath. No vengeance.

He was a master of his expression. He smiled. "Come along."

"Where?"

"To see if you are worthy of the Many-Faced-God and the gift He bestows."

The man did not move an inch, his stare sharpened. "I do not wish for death unto myself."

"He knows."

"I hear the price for your god's gift is steeper than the Iron Bank."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. If a man is not prepared to receive the gift, he shall not go."

"I'm ready."

"Then, we shall go."

He started to walk. His footsteps were unheard on the stone floor. The man did not tail behind. Instead, he fell into step beside him. He towered over what had once been Marion, tall, thin, and made of sharp corners like a bastard sword. He felt the way the man eyed him from the side, searching for his weak points, trying to catalog him, play him for the man's interest.

Not in this life.

He brought the man to the second floor and outside the black and white doors. The scale grey and blue waters lapped at the smooth stones of the House of Black and White. It was a rare moment in Braavos. The Braavosi liked to say there were only three kinds of weather in Braavos, rain, fog, and freezing rain. Today, the sun was heavy in the blue sky, the fog and rain a distant memory, and the winds were light and playful. He expected the children of Braavos to enjoy the brief summer spoils.

"What does a man seek?"

"Greatness."

"Oh."

"What?" snapped the man. "Is that not good enough for your god?"

"The Many-Faced God does not judge and neither does his acolytes. There are only the price and the gift. An acolyte was curious." He paused as if considering.

"If an acolyte may speak, greatness has taken many men on many different paths, and they achieved their greatness at a terrible cost."

"It is known," the man said. "I do not cower at the price."

Of course not. He had seen the man's soul before, gruesomely split in seven different ways and there was not an ounce of contrition for the man's condition. The man would do it again if it meant his ambition would be fulfilled.

"Oh," he said again. "What gift does a man seek from the many-faced god. Speak a name."

"My father, Euron Greyjoy, his death," the man said.

The person in front of him had started with the same desires in his other life. It seemed little changed.

"A name has been heard."

"It is done then?"

"No."

"When will it be done."

"An acolyte does not know. He must bring a name to the Many-Faced God and only He will decide. Before a man leaves Braavos, he will have his answer."

The man's face was clear as the Sweetwater River that carried on their aqueducts. It was hard and cold before a colorless smile replaced it. His eyes though, they told the truth. "I will kill Euron Greyjoy with or without your Many-Faced God's blessing."

"I know."

The man left, he disappeared back into the House of Black and White. Then, for awhile, He sat in his spot and stayed very still. He looked over to where the man had been as if expecting him, or someone else to appear before his eyes to tell him the answer. It would be an easy thing to offer a gift to the Many-Faced God.

What would the gift bring: a living avatar for the Great Other as the man had been previously?

He pressed his lips together, thinning them into a single line. He stayed until the sun was swallowed by the clouds and the freezing rain came.

* * *

"Where has no one gone?" a man called Jaqen H'ghar, asked with bright eyes, his strange hair of red and white brushed his shoulders. Jaqen inspected the faces in the Hall of Many Faces, his rough fingers brushed against their leathery skin.

"It is time for no one to become someone," he said to Jaqen. Jaqen had been distant as She had been close. Jaqen went as he pleased and came back when it was time to dole out the names heard by the Many-Faced God.

"A face is poison to someone."

"I do not need a lesson."

"Of course," Jaqen said. "Who is this sweet girl that stands before no one."

"A girl is named Henryetta - Harry."

"Harry, yes, and why has Harry come?"

"Harry will join Euron Greyjoy's ship to escape before."

"Before?"

"Yes. Before, Harry lived with her Aunt and Uncle. She hated her Aunt and Uncle."

Jaqen moved behind him and boxed his ears hard. His ears rang. He licked his lips, staring hard at Jaqen who nodded at him to continue. Jaqen learned the truth of a thousand lives.

"She hated her Aunt and Uncle and she did not. They were the only family she had left, but they were cruel, very cruel. When Harry could not take it anymore, she left."

"Where did Harry go?"

"First, Harry lived with her brother in all but blood. Harry loved their family: a mother, a father, seven brothers. Harry loved the youngest the most. But, it was hard for her brother's family because they did not have much but they would not let Harry go, so when Harry had the opportunity, she left again."

"Where did Harry go?"

"Nowhere and somewhere at once. They say Braavos has outlawed slavery. It is true and it is not. Harry was not a slave but she was chained to a master the same. Harry's master was an evil man, a crueler man than her Uncle, but her master found salvation in the Lord of the Light and he offered Harry to the Temple of the Light."

"What did the Lord of the Light make of Harry?"

"Harry was filled with too much darkness to be a temple whore. Harry was too weak to be a warrior."

"A priest."

"Only when Harry breathed fire into the dead and read the Lord's messages in flames did she become a priest."

"And how did Harry end up on Euron Greyjoy's Silence?"

"Harry looked into the flame and saw a golden kraken devoured by the Lord's light and from the ashes the kraken was reborn. His arms wrapped around the fourteen seas and crowned with iron."

Jaqen smiled for, but a moment, he thought he imagined it.

"Harry must not tell lies," said Jaqen.

"She has not," the boy said. A boy learned the lesson well a long time ago. "Harry has interpreted the Lord's message as best as she can. She follows where He leads."

Jaqen nodded.

"Who will you be?" the boy asked Jaqen. He followed behind Jaqen as they rounded each column, one after the other and passed hundreds of faces until Jaqen stopped and inspected one of the newest faces.

The boy remembered this one. He had been the one to sit beside the man as he accepted the gift of the Many-Faced God. The man had raised his full cup to the Stranger like an old friend in the tavern. "I greet the only God in the lands, Death," the man said with wet cheeks and a roguish smile, "Today! I say." The man drained his cup. He went to sleep, laughing.

"Syrio Forel, first sword of the Sealord of Braavos, master of water dancing," Jaqen said as he peeled off the face on the stone. "The Many-Faced God has whispered a name in my ear, and He bids me find another to join His ranks."

The seeking of an acolyte was rare in the House of Black and White. The acolytes were drifters and castoffs and often came to the House with the mark of death on them. For someone to be named specifically, they must be the agent for Many-Faced God. Who? The boy wanted to know. He reminded himself that a servant did not ask questions… within reason.

He left Jaqen and moved deeper into the Hall where the light of the candles was but a distant glow. There, he found Harry.


End file.
